Up All Night
by Anonymoustache
Summary: John and Sherlock attend a party at Greg Lestrade's house one evening. When feelings are revealed and certain facts finally come to light, where will the twilight hours find our favorite consulting detective and his blogger, not to mention the other partygoers? Eventual Johnlock and Mystrade.
1. Party, Sherlock-Style

A/N; Hello, everybody! I hope you're all doing well...*offers a plate of cookies around*...have a cookie! They're chocolate peanut butter...my favorite! Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes...this fic. Well, this fic is just a short, fluffy, Johnlock fic so that I can procrastinate from updating my other fics-I mean, so that I can, um, y'know, just do something fun! *coughs awkwardly* Well, anyways, hope you enjoy...and never fear, I'll stop procrastinating soon and get my arse moving on the others :D

Thanks to every person who's followed, favorited, even just read...and remember to review! Reviews will be rewarded with virtual cookies and virtual cake and large amounts of virtual chocolate. If you don't review, Mycroft will have to eat all the goodies, and then he'll get fat. Help Mycroft stick to his diet; leave a review!

Gotta admit, the one reason I did this fic was because the idea of Sherlock in black skinny jeans makes me have a mind seizure. Ta!

* * *

"Remind me…_why_ did I agree to go to this 'party' at Scotland Yard?"

John sighed. "Because we made a deal. You go to this _one _Halloween party, and I'll allow you to have _one_ body part stored in the refrigerator for a month." He leaned over to pick up an empty takeout container lying on the floor. "And it _isn't_ at Scotland Yard, it's at Greg's house. More room, more people."

John heard Sherlock grumbling to himself, and then the consulting detective appeared in the living room, wearing nothing but his dressing gown and a pair of boxer shorts. He flopped down unceremoniously on the worn couch, the thin silk of the robe falling back, his hips perched slightly obscenely on the arm of the sofa. John gulped, hiding his red face by ducking down to throw away the container. Did the man know how he looked when he did that?

He took a deep breath. "Sherlock, go get dressed. We've got to leave in half an hour!"

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible.

John frowned. "And it better be something at least slightly resembling a costume."

Sherlock shot up. "WHAT?! A _costume_?" he spat the last word as if it were a disease.

The army doctor rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock, a costume. You know, something you don't normally wear, someone you normally aren't?" Sherlock gave him a blank look. John sighed. "Look, just go into your room, find something you haven't worn since high school; God knows you could probably still fit in it, skinny as you are; and throw it on! Come on, we don't have all day!"

Sherlock observed him closely. "And what are you going as?"

John pursed his lips with impatience. "I'm wearing my old uniform. Now, I'm going to go take a shower. Get dressed, for God's sake!"

The consulting detective flopped back down to his previous position, hips jutting up again. John sucked in a breath. "A cold shower, I think," he rasped quietly to himself, and headed off to the bathroom to do just that.

* * *

John stepped out of the shower, carefully wrapping a towel around himself. His uniform was up in his bedroom; why hadn't he thought to bring it down? Silently cursing his stupidity, John opened the bathroom door…and came face-to-face with Sherlock.

Only, it definitely wasn't the Sherlock John Watson knew. Because the Sherlock he knew didn't wear clothes like this.

John wrapped his towel tighter around his body, trying to prevent an awkward situation from arising. "Sherlock." He swore inwardly as his voice squeaked, an octave about normal.

"John?" Sherlock, for once, looked slightly self-conscious. "Is this okay to wear?"

John's eyes traveled up and down Sherlock's long, lanky form. The consulting detective was wearing a simple soft t-shirt with blue and grey and black stripes crossing vertically across his chest. John could see the outline of every single one of Sherlock's ribs, giving the shirt a loose, comfortable feel. Below that was the detail that had definitely caught John's eye first; a pair of dark black jeans. _Skinny_ jeans, in fact. They were slung low on his hips, giving off a tantalizing glimpse of tight black briefs. On his feet were a pair of simple black and white converse, perfectly worn. John could just see hints of a thin silver interlocking chain around Sherlock's neck.

"John?" Sherlock asked again, now looking concerned. "Are you okay?"

It was then that John realized his mouth had been hanging open like a fish. He abruptly shut it with a snap, and then opened it to respond to Sherlock's question. "Um, yeah. Great. Really, really great. Uh, it's good, Sherlock, you'll be fine, yes…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "John?"

John stopped babbling, eyes still blown wide. "Well, I better go get dressed now…" he squeaked, and made a beeline for his room, leaving a very confused Sherlock in his wake.

* * *

John shut and locked the door to his room moments later, breathing a sigh of relief. God…why did this happen? He wasn't gay!

_But you're bi, _said an almost Sherlock-like voice in his head. _You swing both ways. After all, you didn't get the name John 'Three-Continents' Watson for being completely straight, now did you?_

_Shut up. _John dried his hair and pulled on a pair of loose pants. He wasn't gay, and he most certainly wasn't interested in his flatmate, he told himself. No, definitely not.

* * *

Downstairs, Sherlock was beginning to worry. John had said high school clothes, hadn't he? Had he said something else and Sherlock looked like a fool to him? He shook his head. For once, Sherlock couldn't deduce what had happened.

He sat down on the couch, waiting for John to finish dressing. Sure, this wasn't something he normally wore…maybe that was why John was acting so oddly? But this Halloween thing…it was all about dressing differently, wasn't it?

Sherlock sighed impatiently. He didn't understand it at all.

He heard boots tromping down the stairs, and, looking up, saw John Watson standing in front of him, army uniform and all.

It was a sight to behold. Trousers and boots still dusty from far-away sands, army-issued jacket still bearing bloodstains and little tears, unzipped slightly to reveal an equally-stained white undershirt…

To Sherlock, it was gorgeous.

He frowned. Why had he thought that? It had been completely out of the blue. He was Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake; the only gorgeous things to him were dead bodies and blood samples and chemicals under a microscope. He shook his head slightly to get control of his rambling mind. "Ready to go?" he said. No, not right, too bright, far too cheerful.

And indeed, John was more than a bit shocked. "Are you…_excited_ about this?"

Sherlock shook his head vigorously. "No. Nooooo, no, no, no." he laughed uncomfortably. "Not at all. I'm dreading it, actually."

John smirked. "Good. I'm dreading having another head in the fridge for a month. Now let's go; don't want to be late!" He opened the door and gestured grandly at Sherlock to step out into the hallway.

And with that, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes stepped out into the night.


	2. Talk To Me, John Watson

Sherlock looked around, a bored expression on his face and a drink in his hands. He lifted the drink up to eye level to observe the contents. He deduced it as a strange, fruit-flavored type of vodka. He rolled his eyes. Why had he come to this party again? No head-in-the-fridge was worth _this_ boredom!

He studied the people around him, people currently occupying Greg's sofa and chairs around the fireplace, chatting quite loudly about unspecified topics. He watched as John said something highly amusing and everybody laughed. Sherlock shook his head. He and John were as different as oxygen and mercury.

The conversation shifted, and John, seeing Sherlock sitting alone in the corner with a small vodka glass in his hand, stood up to go talk to him. Sherlock groaned inwardly. _Oh, great, a pity chat. I __**love **__pity chats! _He thought sarcastically to himself.

John crouched down near his chair. "Everything all right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared at him, despising John and the conversation they were about to have. "Of course everything's 'all right', John, why shouldn't it be?" he snapped angrily.

John looked taken aback. "Well, you're just…you're not…over there." he finished lamely, gesturing vaguely towards the small knot of people stretched out in front of Greg's fire.

"Yes, good deduction, John, well done." Sherlock said icily.

John raised an eyebrow. "Why not? You like to talk; all you have to do is go over there and…mingle."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "John. You really should know by now that I do _not_ 'mingle'."

John gave him a look. "Why are you so tetchy all of a sudden? Did I do something wrong?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Well, how am I supposed to know? I've barely seen you all night, John!"

John stopped for a moment, and then let out a sigh of realization. "Oh. So _that's_ what this is all about. You want me to _talk_ to you?"

Sherlock shook his head, thinking about how to explain this to John. "No, I…"

John broke in. "You want me to get you into the conversation?" he asked, looking confused.

Sherlock growled. "John, it's just that…"

John interrupted once more. "Wait, no, no, I know…you want to talk to _me_?"

Sherlock slammed his drink down on a side table. "Goddammit, John, I want you to pay attention to me!" the next words slipped out without him even thinking about them. "I'm highly attracted to you, and it's confused me so much that I don't _know_ what I want!"

The room grew quiet as the group heard Sherlock's yelling. The silence stayed for more than five minutes, until Greg told a bad joke and everyone laughed and started talking again, leaving Sherlock to gauge John's reaction to this stunning news he had just, unfortunately, conveyed.

John stood stock still, a look of shock on his face. "What?" he whispered. "Sherlock…you're in _love_ with me?"

Sherlock's hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles paper-white. "I didn't…I mean, I don't…that is to say, you are very…no, that's just…excuse me, please, John."

And with that Sherlock rose quickly and darted across the flat, towards Greg's bathroom, leaving one fruity vodka and a very shell-shocked John in his wake.

Sherlock slammed shut the door to the bathroom, breathing heavily. What had just happened? As his brain caught up with his mouth (and his heart) Sherlock swore a blue streak. Shit. He had just as good as told John he was in love with him. Silently cursing himself, Sherlock sat down in front of the toilet, next to the bathtub, to wait out the party.

Where would he go? He couldn't kick John out of Baker Street; Sherlock himself would have to leave. As much as he loathed to ask his brother for anything, maybe just this once wouldn't hurt.

Sherlock heard someone banging a fist on the door. "Occupied." he muttered, putting his head in his hands.

"Sherlock? Open up, Sherlock! I need to talk to you!"

_Oh, God. It's John. John's standing on the other side of that door. Oh, God. What do I do now?_

"Sherlock, are you all right? So help me, if you don't open this door right now, I will bust it down! Sherlock, open the damn door…"

Sherlock, in a flash, stood and opened the damn door.

And the next thing he knew he was being bowled over by a very real, very alive, very red army doctor. And after that, that army doctor had put his lips on Sherlock's and all Sherlock could feel was happiness. It was like drugs, a pleasant white noise in his head, filling him from head to toe. He could feel John's body lying on top of him, smell his cologne and his John scent, could feel the warmth coursing through both bodies, John's and his own. And finally, finally, after what felt like years and years of perfect, amazing bliss, they broke apart, John's blushing face inches from his own.

"I wanted to tell you, Sherlock, that I felt the same way," John said apologetically, "but I didn't know if words would really get the point across."

Sherlock looked up at John's dilated pupils and swollen lips. "Will…will you tell me again?"

John grinned. "Gladly," he said, and leaned back down to his consulting detective once more.


	3. Dancing With Lots Of Love

Just as John leaned down to plant a second kiss on Sherlock's plump, inviting lips, he heard two sets of footsteps coming down the hallway towards the bathroom.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

"Did you not lock the door?" Sherlock asked, out of breath from their heavy snogging session.

"No, I was a bit busy with planning what to _say_ to you!" John hissed.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and John turned his head to find himself face to face with Greg Lestrade, closely followed by Mycroft Holmes. Both stopped at the sight of the two men tangled up on the floor below them and gaped, completely shocked.

Mycroft broke the silence. "Well, Gregory, it appears that this room is occupied. Might I suggest we take our…business…elsewhere?"

Greg nodded, still in a state of shock. "Right. Sure. Yeah."

Mycroft propelled the inspector out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him. John turned back to Sherlock, and Sherlock's gaze turned to John's…

And they both began to laugh uproariously at what had just occurred.

"Oh, God, did you see their _faces_?" John choked out between giggles.

"That was priceless." Sherlock said, agreeing with his blogger.

They fell silent for a few moments, until Sherlock spoke up.

"So, Dr. Watson, what should we do now?"

John thought for a moment. "Well, seeing as it would be slightly inappropriate to shag in our host's bathroom, maybe we should go back out to the party."

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose so. As long as we can shag when it _is_ appropriate."

John laughed. "Sure, Sherlock, sure. Anytime…just not here."

He pulled himself upright and opened the door, helping Sherlock to his feet. "Ready to go back out to the world?"

Sherlock straightened his purple shirt, dusting off imaginary specks of lint. "Not particularly, but I will for you."

John grinned. "That might be the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

* * *

They arrived back in the living room to find that someone had turned on Greg's stereo, and everyone had begun to dance. John looked around; he could see Anderson and Sally, practically glued to each other, dancing in a far-off corner. Other partygoers were scattered around the room, rocking back and forth to the loud music.

Up to that current point in the evening, John had swallowed quite a fair amount of alcohol, and he was feeling somewhat adventuresome. "Sherlock, come on, let's dance!"

Sherlock backed up, looking very wary. "John, I'm not sure that's quite a good idea, given your current level of intoxication…"

John frowned. "Come on, 'Lock. You can't just stand around in the corner _all_ night."

Sherlock's face heated up. "John…I-I really don't want to dance. Not tonight."

However, despite the man's protests, John dragged him out onto the makeshift dance floor (which happened to be Greg's woven rug). Sherlock sighed. He _hated_ dancing with a passion. But, if it was what John wanted, he would do it.

As John moved his body to the music, he began to notice something interesting. Sherlock, who he had assumed had never been much of a party animal, was dancing like an old pro. The consulting detective's body moved with grace and dexterity John had only seen at crime scenes and in the lab. "Sherlock…" he began, but the man gave him such a don't-go-there look that John immediately shut his mouth with a snap.

As the detective got closer to him and began to grind into his hip, John began to see small things about Sherlock's appearance that he hadn't seen until he was up close just now. They were little details, admittedly, but John couldn't believe he hadn't noticed them before. Sherlock's beautiful, stormy, multi-colored eyes were lined with just a hint of gold-flecked kohl that made them stand out even more than ever. The skin of his face had been dusted with some kind of shimmery white powder, making his cheekbones prominent below those gorgeous eyes. He had rubbed some kind of gel product in his hair, the beautiful black curls falling onto his eyebrows every so often. And the necklace that he had noticed underneath Sherlock's collar earlier was now out, displayed on his chest for everyone to see.

And when John got a look at what was on that necklace, it took his breath away.

"Sherlock?" he said quietly.

Sherlock stopped dancing as he heard the wonder in John's tone. "Am I not doing this right?" he asked worriedly. He was a little rusty, he admitted to himself. After all, he hadn't danced since uni. But he didn't think it was so bad as to merit a look of _that_ much confusion.

John brought up a shaky hand and gestured to his chest. "Your…your necklace…it's my…you're wearing my…"

Sherlock looked down at the front of his shirt near his collar. He reached up a hand and fingered the slim silver chain, from which dangled John's old army dog tags. His other hand came up and clasped the hand John was using to point to the tags. "I hope that's okay." He said softly. "I didn't have any necklaces, and I…I just needed something of yours with me tonight."

His eyes, his indescribably gorgeous eyes, met John's. "I love you, John." his face twisted slightly. "And I can't figure it out, this feeling. Whenever you're not there, I just…I feel so lost. It's so strange…needing someone else is not something I am used to. But you…my world stops turning when you leave the room, John."

John's eyes widened. "Sherlock…" he spoke quietly, not knowing what to say. The music changed, turning to a slow dance song. Couples all over the floor were breaking away, rocking each other softly with the music. He took a deep breath. "Will you dance with me?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, John." he whispered, and he pulled the army doctor close to him. They swayed back and forth to the soft tones of a song Sherlock couldn't quite place.

"John...what song is this?" he asked quietly.

"Um…I think it's called Ungodly Hour by The Fray." He responded, trying to make easy conversation.

"It's nice."

The two continued their dance, though John noticed Sherlock's hands gripping tighter on his hips. Hoping that he was doing the right thing, John leaned his head onto Sherlock's shoulder, fitting them together almost seamlessly.

"John?"

"What is it, Sherlock?"

He felt Sherlock's hand drift up to his middle back, gently caressing it. "Am I doing this right?"

"Doing what right?"

"Love."

John smiled and kissed the detective's shoulder gently. "Yes, Sherlock. Yes, you are."


	4. Mycroft Holmes Cried

Greg quietly closed the bedroom door behind him and turned to Mycroft, an inquisitive look on his face.

"What the bloody hell was _that_ about?"

Mycroft chuckled. "It's obvious, isn't it? They've finally 'gotten it on', as several of their followers put it."

Greg grinned. "Means I've won a fair amount in a betting pool at the Yard," he said jokingly.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I didn't realize you were a betting man, Gregory," he said teasingly.

Greg's face heated up. "Well…" he broke off abruptly. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Mycroft suddenly looked uncomfortably. He subconsciously began twisting his hands together in front of him. "It's a rather awkward topic, you see, and I wanted to make sure we had somewhere quiet to talk about it…"

Just then the bedroom door burst open and in tumbled a very drunk Anderson clutching a giggling Sally. They sprawled on the carpet together, heavily snogging.

Mycroft sighed and turned to Greg. "Anywhere _else_?" he asked acidly.

Greg nodded and pointed towards the linen closet in the hallway. "That's probably the best bet for now."

Mycroft nodded tersely and headed out of the room, stepping over the two police officers writhing on the floor.

Greg looked down in disgust at his employees as he followed Mycroft out. He was going to say something along the lines of 'get a room', but realized that was pointless when they were, technically, in a room already. He shoved Anderson's foot out of the way and shut the door, none too gently.

For maybe the third time, Greg wondered why Mycroft had brought him up here to talk to him. It was a party, so it certainly couldn't be work-related. It probably wasn't anything to do with Sherlock. For a wild moment Greg thought maybe Mycroft liked him. Greg himself had liked the man ever since he had stepped into his office that one day for a chat about his little brother…but the detective inspector knew that there was no way Mycroft could return his feelings. 'The iceman', that was the street nickname for Mycroft; Mycroft wasn't 'in love' with anyone, that was common knowledge.

Mycroft had stopped right outside the small door Greg had gestured to, waiting for direction. He pointed to the linen closet. "Is this the only available space?"

Greg shrugged. "It's the only place we won't be interrupted."

Mycroft sighed. "Well, if we must," he said with the air of a man who has been made to suffer.

He stood outside the closet, umbrella in hand, not moving. Greg hovered nearby for a moment, wondering why the man wasn't going in. And then he realized, and, grumbling under his breath about 'lazy British Governments' and 'lowly inspector servants', he stepped in front of Mycroft and opened the door for him.

Mycroft nodded sweetly. "Thank you, Gregory." He stepped inside, Greg following closely behind.

It was a tight fit in the tiny closet. Every time Greg tried to turn around, he felt Mycroft's umbrella poking into his back, and Mycroft was doing his best to avoid Greg's elbows. Finally, by some miracle, they got the door shut and were completely alone.

With some difficulty, Greg turned around to face the other man. "So…what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. "Well…as Sherlock has probably told you, I am not much of a…socially involved…person. At parties, I am often…awkward. In fact, sometimes I just go hide somewhere until they're over!" he laughed, insinuating that it was a joke.

Greg kept his fact passive, trying to mask his confusion. "Uh…ok-aaaay…"

Mycroft sighed and mentally hit himself. _Stupid, stupid Mycroft…rambling is never a good thing_, said the little voice in his head. "What I'm saying is, social gatherings are usually a pain for me. However, I have concocted a solution in my head that I propose to try. I would like to-no, I would be deeply honored if you would…"

Just then the door to the linen closet opened and Molly's head peeked in.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Mycroft exclaimed, now becoming very frustrated.

Molly's face cringed apologetically. "Sorry, Mr. Holmes. I was just wondering where Greg-er, Inspector Lestrade was."

Greg tried to keep his face controlled. Molly was looking for him? He sighed. He knew the girl had a crush on him, ever since she had heard how he had saved Sherlock's life on a case. However, the only person Greg really wanted an actual relationship with was the one person (_man_, his brain said, _you're gay now, remember_?) he couldn't have.

Then again, he told himself, he wasn't going to turn up a good chance to get laid.

Greg smiled cheerily at Molly. "No, no, it's no problem, Molls. We were just finishing up anyways!"

"_What_?" Mycroft thought. He hadn't even said _it _yet! This was not going according to plan.

Molly blushed. "Oh, good! So I'm not…interrupting…anything?"

Greg laughed. "Oh, no, you're fine. I know what Mycroft wants, it's okay."

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat. "You…you do?" he said hoarsely.

Well, obviously, Greg thought to himself. He was no Holmes, but it was pretty apparent that Mycroft Holmes was just feeling lonely. The man _definitely_ didn't want Greg, but maybe…

Greg nodded. "Yeah. You want me to find you someone to dance with, right?" He grinned. "You're in luck. My cousin Bertha showed up just minutes before you dragged me up here. She'll dance with anyone!"

Mycroft winced. That one hurt.

Greg didn't notice, instead plowing through to talk to Molly._ Good chance to get laid_, his brain repeated over and over. "Well, Molly; while Mycroft's dancing with Bertha, would you do me the honor of a dance?" he asked, trying to sound as suave as possible.

Molly giggled. "All right, Greg. Sounds…amazing." She sighed. Mycroft snorted. It was obvious that she had a pathetic little office crush on the man.

Greg looked at him, concerned. "You all right, mate? You're sounding a bit stuffy; There's some cold medicine in the bathroom cupboard if you need it; that is, if the crime couple have moved out." he said jokingly. Molly giggled for the umpteenth time.

And with that Greg led a giggling Molly down the stairs towards the pounding music coming from his living room. "See you soon, Mycroft. I'll let Bertha know you're coming, shall I?" he called over his shoulder as the two of them meandered away from the bottom stairs.

Mycroft watched as they disappeared from view. He cursed to himself and turned, walking back towards the bathroom.

He gently knocked on the door, but no one answered. Good. A hideout.

Mycroft opened the door, and, slipping in quietly, locked the door behind him. He braced himself against the wall opposite the toilet and slid down to sit on the floor.

Placing his head in his hands, Mycroft did something he hadn't done for a very long time.

Mycroft Holmes cried.


	5. Sentiment And Voluntary Hugs

"You sure you're okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John. I'm fine. Really, I just need to use the toilet. I'll be back in less than five minutes." He raised his eyebrows seductively. "I think you can keep yourself _busy_ until then, don't you?"

John ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Sherlock. Don't do that."

Sherlock let out a low, rumbling laugh. "What? You mean…this?" he raised his brows in the same way. "Why not? Does it make you feel…weird?" he said, his silky baritone caressing John's ears.

"Yes." John whispered, leaning in close to Sherlock. "Very."

Sherlock pulled back and laughed evilly. "Too bad. I have to go."

And Sherlock turned and ran up the stairs, leaving John in the middle of the living room, still slightly shell-shocked.

John sighed, bemused. Sherlock would be back in a few minutes, no doubt, with some crazy idea or plan to blow up Greg's flat and embarrass Anderson and Sally.

* * *

Laughing quietly to himself, Sherlock turned the knob on the bathroom door…

And found himself face to face with his older brother.

Crying.

This was not a situation Sherlock was familiar with, not at all. Crying people? He dealt with them every time there was a murder.

Crying Mycroft?

It just didn't happen.

Mycroft did _not_ cry. He didn't. In Sherlock's whole childhood, he couldn't remember a single time Mycroft had even shed a tear.

It was unbelievable. In fact, if Sherlock hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it.

Mycroft was not so happy either.

He hadn't cried for _ages_. Not since he was three years old, at least. But somehow, his face was damp, and there were hot tears falling from his eyes.

Unbelievable.

Sherlock was not quite sure what to do, and so he hesitated there in the doorway of the bathroom, waiting for some kind of sign or signal as to what he was supposed to be doing.

Sherlock hesitated for a reason. They had never been like other siblings. Their relationship was not one of hugs and happiness and cookies like most children. No, they had grown up together with science and logic and caring-is-not-an-advantageness.

However, if Mycroft was crying, something was really, really wrong.

Sherlock shut the door behind him with a snap and sat down cross-legged in front of his brother.

"Anderson and Sally are certainly enthusiastic tonight," he remarked.

Mycroft laughed drily. "I know. We…ran into them upstairs. Literally."

Sherlock smirked. "How literally?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Really, Sherlock. I think you're capable of making jokes better than that."

Sherlock frowned. Mycroft rolling his eyes? Something was definitely wrong. And Sherlock planned on finding out what it was.

"Okay," he said, leaning in towards his brother, "Tell me, Mycroft. Tell me."

Mycroft's gaze wandered up and suddenly became fascinated with the shower curtain. "Tell you what?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Oh, never mind. I'll just read it."

A few minutes of silence passed, in which Mycroft stared hard at the wall and Sherlock's penetrating gaze traveled over and over his brother's still figure.

Suddenly, Sherlock made a little 'oh' of recognition. Mycroft looked up sharply. "What?" he snapped.

Sherlock looked slightly confused. "But…why would you…oh. Sentiment. I see."

Mycroft sighed and went back to studying the wall.

Finally, a few minutes later, Sherlock spoke. "Ah-ha!" he said.

"Ah-ha what?" Mycroft asked, doing his best to sound bored.

"Lestrade…really, Mycroft? Better than Anderson, I suppose. But why…oh, of course. Molly. She has a pathetic little crush on anyone with a…"

"Shut up." Mycroft said tersely.

"Sorry?" Sherlock said, broken away from his reverie.

"I _said_, shut up, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at his brother, very concerned now. Mycroft didn't often say shut up, and only when he was very, very annoyed did he then use it. "Myc, please. I'm sorry."

He saw Mycroft's face soften at the use of Sherlock's childhood nickname for his older brother. "Me too, little brother. Me too." He looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

Sherlock looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned on his face. "No. Don't do that."

Mycroft looked up, confused. "Do what?"

"Tell yourself that it's not okay to be human."

"Sherlock…"

"No. It's not true. John's shown me things, Mycroft. Things about myself that I had no idea of before I met him." Sherlock paused. "And I'm not talking about sex, so don't even try to make a joke."

Mycroft cracked a pathetic little smile. "I'm…"

"…just like me. I know, brother, I know."

Sherlock pulled Mycroft into a hug.

Mycroft stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into his brother's warm arms. His arms traveled up and clung around his brother for dear life.

They sat there for several moments, intertwined on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, warmth and brotherly love spread like a blanket around them.

Mycroft smiled at the irony of the situation.

"You do realize that this is the first time we have voluntarily hugged since you were two years old."

Sherlock let out a quiet huff of laughter. "Yes, I'm well aware."

They both quieted.

"Myc?"

The man raised his head. "What, Sherlock?"

"Do you…" he hesitated. "Do you want me to talk to Lestrade?"

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Sherlock…" he said warningly.

Sherlock looked into his brother's wide eyes. He could read everything there.

**This is not even remotely a good idea.**

_Don't be stupid, Mycroft. I'll be casual, don't worry._

**Since when have you done casual, Sherlock?**

_Since now._

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Hopefully with Greg Lestrade in tow."


	6. Bored To Death (The Matchmaker)

"…and then, he jumped up on the coffee table and meowed-actually meowed-at me!"

Greg sighed. "That's…amazing, Molls."

Molly giggled, again. Did she ever stop, Greg wondered? "Isn't it? It's like he was trying to talk to me!" Another giggle.

_Oh, God_. Greg didn't know if he could take another five minutes of Molly's incessant chatter. For the past ten minutes, all she had done was giggle and tell stories about her cat. And giggle some more.

He was really wishing he'd stayed with Mycroft. Even if he didn't return Greg's feelings, at least he was remotely interesting to talk to.

As Molly began yet another dull, uninteresting story involving her cat and a potted plant, Sherlock walked into the room from the hallway. Greg watched as the consulting detective's eyes wandered the room, looking for something…or someone. Then, Sherlock's intense eyes locked onto him, and he began to make his way over to him.

Greg tried not to scream. First Molly and boring cat stories, now Sherlock, no doubt with some irritating and/or snarky comment about a.) the party, b.) Greg's flat, or c.) any other thing he deemed worthy of his criticism. What had he done to deserve _this_?

Sherlock suddenly appeared at his elbow. "Lestrade," he said formally.

Molly broke off in the middle of her cat story. "H-hello, Sherlock!" she said, blushing a deep crimson. Greg sighed. Apparently she still hadn't caught onto the fact that John and Sherlock were an item.

"Molly." Sherlock said tightly. He turned back to Greg. "Lestrade, we need to talk." He looked at Molly with distaste. "In private."

Greg looked at him incredulously while Molly's eyes drifted downward, embarrassed. "Sherlock, I'm a bit busy, in case you didn't notice!" Sure, Molly was boring him to death, but he wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to ignore Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

As if it was in slow motion, Greg saw Sherlock draw a long breath, and then, just as he was about to speak….

"No. Sherlock, shut it, okay? No deductions, not tonight. I'll talk to you…just; let's make it quick, okay?"

Sherlock nodded once and abruptly left the room.

Greg turned to Molly. "I'll…I'll just…go. I'll be right back…" he stammered, trying to make up a plausible excuse.

Molly sighed. "Oh, go ahead. I know I'm boring you."

Greg put a properly shamed look on his face. "No! No, you weren't, you were fine…"

Molly waved him off. "S'okay." she said miserably, "I think I'll just go have some punch." She tilted her head down and walked away.

_Damn_. Greg certainly wasn't winning any points with the ladies tonight.

_That's why you're gay now, remember?_ said the little voice in his head.

"Shut up," Greg growled under his breath, earning a strange stare from Inspector Dimmock.

"You okay, Inspector?" Dimmock asked, slightly concerned. Maybe all the work really was getting to Greg, he thought to himself.

"Fine, fine," Greg said, waving the other inspector away. He noted Dimmock's lack of a dance partner. "Hey, mate…you want someone to dance with?"

"Well…I did." he said sadly, watching one of the lady sergeants from across the room. She was a beautiful, tall woman with long blonde hair, and kept throwing disgusted looks over her shoulder at Dimmock.

"I'm…not very popular with the ladies." he said awkwardly. "Not very good at social events, actually."

"Ah." Greg said. An idea was forming in his head. He pointed to where Molly was standing by the punch bowl. "You see her? That's Molly Hooper. She works at Bart's. Take my advice, Dimmock; ask her to dance. I think you two would get along great."

Dimmock's gaze lightened. "Yeah…yeah, I think I will. Thanks, Lestrade."

Greg winked. "No problem."

He watched as Dimmock walked to the punch bowl, and then turned to follow Sherlock's footsteps out of the room.

Sherlock was waiting for him in the hallway just outside the door. Seeing Greg, he immediately launched into his speech. "Lestrade. Do you or do you not have romantic and/or sexual feelings for my brother?"

Greg's eyes went wide and his heart sped up. "Jesus, Sherlock. You really don't beat about the bush, do you?"

Sherlock examined his fingernails. "I'm _waiting_."

Greg coughed uncomfortably. "And…why exactly is this relevant?"

"No reason."

Greg swung his arms by his sides awkwardly. "Right. Well…No!" he almost shouted, surprising Sherlock enough to make him look up. "I'm not going to bloody tell you about my feelings toward your brother!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and smirked. "So you _do_ like him."

Greg was outraged. "How do you figure, Mr. Genius-Detective-Matchmaker?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "You are stunningly transparent, Detective Inspector. Do I really have to go through the dilated-pupils-and-speeding-pulse speech, or can you figure it out on your own?"

Greg frowned. "How did you get my pulse?"

"I didn't."

"Then how…"

Sherlock shrugged. "Simple, really. I mentioned Mycroft's name to see what effect it had on you. When I said it, your pupils dilated so much I'm honestly surprised your eyes didn't explode. As for your pulse…with eyes that get that large when I mention a certain man's name, do you really think I need any more evidence to prove my point?"

"However, if you really need more proof…" He grabbed Greg's wrist and took his pulse. "Just as I thought. Elevated."

Greg pulled his arm back quickly. "Okay, you bloody wanker. You've proved your point!" he growled. "Are you going to go reveal my innermost thoughts and feelings to your brother now so that you two can have a good laugh?" he asked sarcastically.

"No, actually," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "You are. Without the laughing, hopefully."

Greg's mouth hung open. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock sighed, aggravated. "Lestrade, do close your mouth. You look like that small, furry creature on that cartoon movie about the glacial epoch."

Greg shut his mouth with a snap. "You've watched Ice Age?"

Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned. "John made me." His eyes glared intensely at the inspector. "Now, are you going to go up there and talk to my brother, or am I going to have to hurt you?"

Greg stopped for a moment. "What exactly brought this on?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Just go up!" he urged him. "You'll find out soon enough, inspector. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go find John and have a good, long snogging session to erase the mental images of you two as a couple." He winked. "Ta."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes swept away, back into the living room, towards the more pressing matter on his mind.

Greg sighed and looked up the stairs in the direction of the bathroom door. "Well, it's now or never," he muttered with a sigh, and began to climb the stairs.


	7. The Boyfriend Of A Freak

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft sat straight up, panicked. _Oh, God_. Greg Lestrade was standing outside that door, in the hallway….just inches away from Mycroft.

_What do I do_?

"Look, mate…can you just open the door? I need to talk to you…your brother…well, I just…erm…"

Mycroft was intrigued. Greg was tongue-tied? Usually the inspector was so sure of himself.

Balancing himself by placing a hand on the edge of the bathtub, Mycroft stood up, joints creaking. He winced. He wasn't as young as he often thought. He reached out, but just before his hand connected with the handle, the door flew open.

Mycroft stepped back to see Greg standing in front of him, one hand holding a bent piece of wire, the other placed on the knob. He gaped. The inspector had picked the lock just to talk to Mycroft?

"Sherlock taught me a few tricks," Greg said apologetically, shrugging.

Mycroft tried desperately to regain his composure. "Ah. I see."

"Look, Mycroft…" Greg ran a hand through his short hair, trying to mask his awkward discomfort. "I…I feel really bad about what I said earlier. I just…"

Mycroft waved him away. "It's perfectly fine, Gregory. I understand completely."

Greg looked troubled. "No. No, I don't think you do, Mycroft."

Was it his imagination or was Greg a few steps closer than he had been before?

Mycroft peered into Greg's shining jade-coloured eyes. "Gregory…"

And Mycroft's world exploded into stars as the detective inspector leaned in and sealed the distance between them.

* * *

"Oi, freak."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and kept walking.

Anderson stood up from his place on the couch, dislodging Sally from his lap. "Freak! I said oi!"

"Yes, well done, Anderson, you've finally figured out how to use that marvelous thing in your head called your brain. Or rather, your lack of one," Sherlock said coldly, continuing across the living room. How were they down here already? Mycroft said he had just seen them up by the bedroom! They certainly moved fast, Sherlock would give them that.

"Ooooo, _someone's_ crabby. Where's your boyfriend, freak?" Sally slurred, getting up clumsily to stumble over and stand by Anderson.

"Really, Sally. Given by your current level of intoxication, you don't even know where _your _boyfriend is."

"Naaaaah." Anderson said. "I'm right here."

Sherlock curled his lip. "Unfortunately."

"At least I have a boyfriend. At least I have _friends_. Unlike some psychopathic freaks I could mention." Sally smirked as Anderson slid his arm around her waist, kissing her neck like a demented vampire.

"I have friends. I even have a boyfriend, thank you," Sherlock said, stung.

"Pfft. Who, John?" said Anderson. "I saw him in the kitchen with that blonde nurse a few minutes ago. Snogging the life out of her, by the looks of it."

Sherlock almost staggered backwards, but got control of his emotions just in time. "Don't be more stupid than usual, Anderson. John would never do that."

"Really?" Sally asked in a fake-sincere voice. "Then who was that snogging in the kitchen?"

Sherlock hesitated. It couldn't be true…could it?

"Face it, freak; he doesn't like you like that." Anderson laughed coldly. "I mean, how could he? Who would want to be the boyfriend of a freak like you?"

Sherlock turned and fled, Sally and Anderson still laughing in his wake.

* * *

Sherlock burst through the front door, out into the cool night air, and turned to walk down the alley next to Greg's flat.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, silent tears sliding down his cheeks. It was true. It was all true. He should have known.

Why would John want him when he could have someone so much better?

He turned and slid down the wall to sit on the cold, wet ground. He stared at the opposite alley wall. Gray. _How appropriate_.

He felt a drop of water hit his forehead and blinked, looking up. Fat raindrops began to fall from the sky, down onto his crumpled figure.

Let it rain, he thought.

In a few minutes he was thoroughly soaked.

It wasn't so bad, he told himself. Nothing he wasn't used to. On the morning after danger nights long ago, he had often woken up in gutters under streetlights, soaking wet and freezing.

It was cold, though…so very cold. He could feel the chill deep in his bones. The rain seemed to pour even harder, making him shiver.

"Sherlock?"

He looked up to see Molly, standing at the entrance to the alleyway, wearing a raincoat over her party dress and carrying a shapeless bundle. He turned his head away and didn't respond.

_Great. An audience, to witness the breakdown of Sherlock Holmes. Just what I need._

He heard quiet steps coming toward him. Brilliant. Now she was going to come over and try to sooth and mollycoddle him like a baby.

However, as the feet stopped beside him, no words were spoken. Instead, she laid a soft blanket from Greg's couch across his shoulders.

He looked up at Molly's face. There was no sympathy or pity there, just quiet concern and a gentleness Sherlock had never fully appreciated.

"Come inside soon," she said softly, and turned away, walking back down the alley and disappearing into the flat.

Sherlock pulled the blanket tight around his thin, chilled frame and watched the shadows as they danced around him in the bleak grays and blacks of the night.


	8. Problems (You Think I Hate You)

"Have you seen Sherlock?"

Anderson looked over at Sally, both trying not to smirk. He turned back to John. "He probably went home, wouldn't you think? He's not exactly social…_socio_path, definitely."

John narrowed his eyes. "Look. I know you and him have…issues, okay? But right now, it's in _your _best interests to tell _me_ where Sherlock is. Understand?"

Anderson put a fake thinking look on his face. "Well…you know, I'm really not sure. Sally, where did _you_ see him last?"

Sally smirked. "Hmmm…no idea."

Suddenly, John grabbed Anderson by the front of his shirt and lifted him up, despite the obvious height difference. Anderson, fairly surprised by this action, was wondering vaguely if he'd underestimated the good doctor.

John pinned him up against a nearby wall and leaned in close, eyes flashing with fury. "_You_ are going to tell me when and where you last saw Sherlock Holmes and where he went afterwards, or I am going to slowly rip out your kidneys and stuff them so far up your irritating arse you'll be walking funny for a _month_," he growled.

Anderson nodded quickly, panicked. He had deeply underestimated John Watson's love for the sociopath detective, that much was obvious. "He walked by us and we…"

Sally cut across. "He went out the front door. After that, I don't know. Okay? Put him down!"

John let go of Anderson roughly, shoving him backwards when he was done. "We're not done here, Anderson," he said threateningly, and turned on his heel, walking fast towards the door Sally had described.

Anderson straightened up, dusting off his shirt, and swore under his breath, shooting malicious glares at John. He turned away, sneering back at the army doctor. "One of these days, the freak won't want him anymore, and then where will he be?"

Sally shrugged. "It's not our problem, anyways. They're just a pair of lunatics, and they'll end up dead before their time." She turned towards the hallway, not even looking back over her shoulder to see if he was following.

Anderson rolled his eyes and snorted. "The freak's already been dead once…maybe he's gotten used to it." He walked after Sally, trying desperately to ignore the little voice in his head that said their Sherlock problems were far from over.

* * *

"So are we really going to spend the whole party inside my tiny bathroom?"

Mycroft smiled. "Sounds fine to me, Gregory."

Greg shook his head, exasperated. "Mycroft Holmes, you need to learn how to party."

Mycroft cocked his head. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"I _mean_, that you don't know how to have a good time. All that office work has made your brain as dry as a prune."

"Specifically speaking, prunes are not very dry. They have a distinct juicy flavor, if you eat them fresh."

Greg gave him a look that said,_ really_?

Mycroft cringed. "Sorry. I'm just…not well versed in the social obligations of life."

"Yeah, I noticed." Greg chuckled. "That's why I'm going to teach you."

He stood up much more quickly than most people his age would have (all the legwork at the office had kept him quite nimble) and offered his hand to Mycroft.

The man hesitated, clearly nervous. "I…I'm not quite sure…"

"Come on," Greg urged. His eyes were sparkling, catching the light in a way that made Mycroft's whole world stop. "What do you have to lose?"

_Everything_.

Mycroft took his hand and stood carefully. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

He would tell him, eventually. Tell him about the past…about why these gatherings were so torturous for him and his brother. But not now. He couldn't ruin the night, not for Gregory.

Someday, yes. But not now.

Now was not the time to look to the past. It was time for the future to take its course.

It was time to learn how to party.

* * *

John looked around. It was completely dark now; twilight had come and gone as quietly as a mouse.

Where did he go?

Think like Sherlock, he told himself.

_If I was Sherlock…where would I go?_

He closed his eyes and began to turn in a circle. For some reason, this made him think more clearly; he thought maybe it had something to do with Sherlock and the graffiti during the smuggling case.

_Somewhere quiet and cold, obviously_.

John's eyes snapped open.

In front of him was the dank, dark alley next to Greg's flat. Near the middle he could just barely make out a hunched black figure, shaking slightly.

_Sherlock_.

He ran into the alleyway, towards the figure. "Sherlock!" he called out.

The detective's head jerked up, and suddenly he was up and off like a rocket.

_Bugger_. John picked up his pace, following the lean, lithe figure of Sherlock down the alley. "Hey! Sherlock, wait!"

Up ahead, there was an abrupt crack in the pavement, and the detective disappeared suddenly.

John screeched to a halt. Where had he gone?

From up ahead he heard a horrible, pain-filled groan.

John began to run.

Sherlock was lying on the ground, eyes wide, completely out of breath. He didn't look hurt, thank god.

John knelt down beside him. "Are you okay? Anything feel broken?"

Sherlock slowly shook his head, still slightly shell-shocked, unable to form words.

John breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. Jesus…for a moment I thought I'd lost you."

Sherlock struggled to sit up. John grabbed his arms and helped him to lean back against the alley wall. "There we go…" he muttered soothingly.

"J-John…" Sherlock whispered. The impact had taken his breath away. "Why…why are you here?"

"I'm here, you dolt, because my boyfriend disappeared in the middle of a party and left me in the clutches of Greg's creepy cousin Bertha!" he said in an exasperated voice.

"B-but…" Sherlock face contorted, confused. "Anderson…said you were…could never be the boyfriend of a freak," he muttered awkwardly.

John's gaze turned cold. "Don't tell me that you listened to whatever buggering shit Anderson had to say about me?" John shook Sherlock slightly by the shoulders. "I love you, you git! I don't know what he said to convince you otherwise, but I can't believe that you'd doubt me for one second."

"I know, John," Sherlock said, voice heavy. "It's just…social gatherings are highly stressful for me as it is. I just snapped, somehow. I apologize for my lack of faith in you._ You_ are my world, John. A thousand Andersons could never convince me that you weren't true."

John frowned. "Why are they so stressful?"

"I…" Sherlock looked away. "Nothing. It's…it's not important right now. Come…let's get back to the party."

Sherlock stood quickly and headed in the direction of the door to Greg's flat.

John shifted himself back up and watched the consulting detective retreat. Sherlock was holding his arm slightly funny; he made a mental note to check it when they got home.

As for Sherlock's social stressing, he made another note on his mental checklist to remind Sherlock that he was there, and that he loved him.

There was something there, something in Sherlock's past that made the detective disinclined to parties and other social gatherings.

John wouldn't push him, though. He knew better than anyone that sometimes the past shouldn't be dug up.


	9. Mycroft Holmes, I Love You

"I'm going to teach you how to slow dance."

Mycroft showed his apprehension on his face. "Gregory, I really don't think this is a good idea."

Greg shook his head. "Course it is. Come on…here…"

He took Mycroft's hands and placed them just above his hips, then put his hands in the same place on Mycroft.

Mycroft winced. "No…please, don't put your hands there, Gregory."

Greg tilted his head. "Why not?"

The posh man lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'm…I'm fat."

Greg shook his head vehemently. "No, you're not! Why would you think that?"

"N-no reason."

Greg raised his eyebrow. Mycroft never stuttered. This was strange.

"Please, Gregory…just forget it." Mycroft was practically begging.

"Well…okay…"

Greg shrugged and placed his hands on Mycroft's shoulders. He looked at the other man's face. "Now…we just kind of rock back and forth to the music."

"That's it?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah. It's pretty simple."

"Well then…" Mycroft began to sway gently.

An awkward silence fell over the two of them. They watched as Sherlock entered, soaking wet and clutching one of Greg's blankets. He was followed closely by a concerned looking John.

"Come on, Sherlock…Let's get you dried off." John was fluttering about the consulting detective like a nervous mother hen.

"John, I am _fine_, thank you." Sherlock said in a cold voice, and entering the hallway slammed and locked the bathroom door behind him.

John stayed there for a few moments, wearing a very confused look. When Sherlock didn't come back, the army doctor sighed and headed back towards the kitchen.

Greg shook his head in disbelief. "That's crazy. He loves him so much but receives so much grief for it." He looked wistfully off in the distance. "I wonder if anyone will ever love me like that."

_I do._

Mycroft didn't dare say it. He was afraid Greg would run away, or worse, reject him. Instead, he coughed awkwardly and tried to change the subject.

"So…Gregory, I was just wondering…is this a costume party?"

Greg nodded ruefully. "It's supposed to be. But only me and the dynamic deducing duo actually dressed up."

Mycroft tilted his head, looking Greg up and down. "But…what's your costume?"

Greg laughed. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked, gesturing down at his outfit.

Mycroft tried to use his deducing skills. Greg was wearing an immaculate suit with a dress shirt and tie, and there was an umbrella on his arm.

Who did he know who dressed like that?

Mycroft went through his mind bank of personal and business acquaintances of both him and Gregory, but couldn't find a single person who fit the bill.

Mycroft gave him a blank glance and shook his head, slightly miffed that he couldn't figure it out. "I…I don't know."

Greg tilted his head. Mycroft couldn't figure out this easy question?

Strange.

Greg raised his eyebrows and smiled at the other man.

"I'm dressed as you, of course!"

Mycroft's mouth formed a perfect O.

"You…what?"

Greg smiled at Mycroft's astonishment. "I'm dressed as you. You know, suits, umbrella, et cetera…"

Mycroft stared at him, confused. "But…why would you want to dress as _me_?"

Greg frowned. "Why not? I've liked you for _forever_, Mycroft. It…it just made sense."

"But I'm so…"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "So what?"

Mycroft looked down at his feet. "I'm so fat and…and so ugly! Why in the world would you want to dress as me?"

Greg looked at him, concerned. "That's the second time you've said that this evening. Why would you think that?"

"Because I am!" Mycroft exclaimed. He looked around and lowered his voice. "It's true and you know it. No woman would look twice at me."

"Maybe not…but I would," Gregory whispered.

Mycroft's mouth hung open for the second time that evening. "You…you would?"

"Mycroft Holmes, you are not fat, nor are you ugly." Greg said, getting closer with every word. The music was slow and quiet now, filling the room with a peaceful white noise. "Mycroft Holmes, you are the most beautiful, gorgeous, adorable, _amazing_ man I have ever met."

"Mycroft Holmes, I love you."

* * *

"Come on, Sherlock…let's get you dried off."

John followed him closely, but the detective brushed him off.

"John, I am _fine_, thank you." Sherlock pulled away and stormed off to the bathroom.

John raised his eyebrows, confused. What had just happened?

When Sherlock didn't come back, he sighed and headed for the kitchen. Probably just one of Sherlock's pride things.

* * *

_I can't. I can't do it. I can't tell him._

_There's no way he'll love me after he finds out about what happened all those years ago._

_If John ever finds out about my past, he'll never look at me again._

Sherlock gripped the edges of the sink basin with his hands, knuckles turning white. His eyes were red and he was shaking.

It would never work between the two of them. Not now, now that John knew about the unexplained horrors in Sherlock's past.

Eventually, John would want to know about why social gatherings were so frightful for Sherlock and, to an extent, Mycroft.

They would never be able to be together in the way they both wanted.

Because Sherlock could never tell him.

John would ask and ask. But Sherlock would always refuse to tell him.

John would think that Sherlock didn't trust him.

Their relationship would fall apart.

That was why it could never get that far. He must never bring up the subject. He must avoid Mycroft, and try to ward off any topic that might remind John of the idea.

He could never tell him about what had happened that one night so long ago. How one little event had made everything spiral out of control. The abuse. The scars. Mycroft's eating disorder…

_No. John must never know._

_The truth would tear us apart._


	10. Let Me In (Love, Love, Love)

"Sherlock?"

John knocked tentatively on the bathroom door. "Sherlock, what did I do wrong?"

There was no reply from within.

John sighed and leaned his forehead against the door. "Sherlock, I _love_ you, God help me. And if you don't let me in right now and tell me what's going on I will go completely insane."

He lowered his voice, a single tear falling from his eyelashes. "I can't live without you, Lock. Please let me in."

"Please."

* * *

Sherlock pressed his palms flat against his face, silent tears tracing glimmering tracks down his sharp, perfect cheekbones.

"John…" he whispered.

_I can't live without you either._

_I only wish I could let you in._

* * *

"The Sherlock I know wouldn't hide behind a door. He would tell me what's going on, and he would make me laugh, and he would call me an idiot, but I would love him anyway."

"The Sherlock I know is my whole world. And I care about him, past, present, and future. So he should open this door. Because I love him more than anything."

* * *

John heard a shuffling noise from inside the bathroom, and suddenly the door flew open. He was faced with a wet, sniffling mess of a consulting detective.

"J-John…" Sherlock trailed off. His eyes were hesitant, as if he wasn't quite sure of his next move.

John took Sherlock gently into his arms and pushed them both back into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind them.

He sat down on the bathmat and carefully pulled Sherlock down beside him, wrapping the long, lanky detective in his arms. He carded his hand through Sherlock's silky brown curls in a comforting gesture. "Shh, Sherlock…It's okay, I'm here…"

Sherlock's shoulders began to shake, and he laced his arms around John like a small child. "J-John…I'm s-sorry, I can't…can't t-tell you..."

John stiffened. "What do you mean, you can't tell me?"

Sherlock looked up, wiping tears from his eyes. "C-can't tell you…about that night…"

John carefully disentangled himself from Sherlock and took the detective's hands in his own. "Sherlock, you can tell me anything. I love you, and I will never, ever stop loving you, no matter what you tell me. You know that, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "I-I know, John."

John looked straight into Sherlock's eyes. "So tell," he said tenderly.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You promise you won't…hate me?"

"Sherlock." John squeezed his hands. "I could never hate you."

Sherlock nodded, too overcome to speak. He sat up, leaning his back against the bathtub, never letting go of John's hands.

Finally, after a few minutes of silence which Sherlock had used to collect himself, he began to speak.

"When I was a child, my family was…fairly well off." He looked at John. "My parents always threw a Christmas party, every year. Mycroft and I were required to attend; mother and father's little examples, I suppose."

John shrugged. "Every parent likes to show off their children."

Sherlock nodded tersely. "Yes, I know." He coughed and continued. "I was five years old. I was sitting at the children's table with Mycroft. All the other children had gone into another room to watch some idiotic Christmas movie about little clay reindeer."

"Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer." John interjected.

Sherlock shot him a glare. "The point is, Mycroft and I were far superior to the idiotic drabbles of a socially inept deer species with a nose problem. We chose to stay in the room."

Sherlock paused to sneeze, and John made a mental note to check on him for a cold later. Sherlock sniffed and continued. "The adults had a bit too much to drink, and my uncle came over to the children's table where Mycroft and I were sitting playing poker and eating cake."

"You played poker when you were _five_?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, do try to keep up, John. As I was saying, Uncle Dreyfuss came over to our table. He leaned down and poked Mycroft in the belly. He turned to my mother, Violet, and said 'This one's getting fat, Vi'." Sherlock hesitated. "Dreyfuss was my father's brother."

John nodded carefully. "So what did she say?"

Sherlock looked regretfully at John. "She said, 'You're right, George. He needs to watch his weight'. Then she went back to her wine and conversation."

"Mycroft, who was 12 at the time and playing on the junior rugby team, was crushed. He…" Sherlock trailed off and sighed. "As many times as I have said it, Mycroft is not and has never been fat. He was very toned at that age, in fact. However, when a person is drunk their vision and perception of the world is very warped, and Dreyfuss was no excuse."

"So what did Mycroft do?" John asked.

Sherlock laughed hollowly. "Nothing, of course. Mycroft was the calm and collected diplomat, even back then." His eyes turned cold. "But then…" he trailed off, trying to maintain his composure.

John squeezed his hands again. "Sherlock? I'm here. And I love you."

Sherlock nodded, unable to speak. Finally, he worked up the nerve. "Dreyfuss shoved Mycroft's head down into the cake on his plate. 'There, you little pig…get fat.'"

John gaped. "That's…that's horrible."

Sherlock looked downward, not trusting himself to look into John's eyes without breaking down. "Yes. I thought so too. Which was why I did what I did."

John looked up at Sherlock carefully. "Wait…you didn't kill him or anything, did you?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. I was _five_, John…Moriarty may have been a murderer at five, but not me." He shook his head. "No. I threw my plate of cake at my uncle."

John's eyes widened. "That was brave."

"Yes." Sherlock said tensely. "And foolish. The whole room went silent. Then my father spoke. 'Dreyfuss, take that boy into my office and knock some sense into him, will you?'."

"But…" John trailed off.

"I tried to show him Mycroft's face, the cake plate, et cetera, but he wouldn't hear it. Uncle Dreyfuss grabbed me by the arm and dragged me, screaming, from the room." Sherlock's eyes looked haunted.

"He pushed me into Father's office and locked the door behind him. 'You little brat…you'll pay for this,' he said. He took one of father's hunting whips off his shelf and he…he whipped me. Brutally. Over and over…"

Sherlock turned around with John's help so that his back was facing him. John hesitated for a moment.

"Go ahead," Sherlock whispered. "Pull it up."

John pulled at the edges of Sherlock's soft tee shirt and apprehensively rucked it up to his shoulders.

His eyes blurred with tears when he saw what was there.

Sherlock's back was crisscrossed with vicious red and white lines, a mangled mess of stark white skin never exposed to the sun and tender flesh where the skin hadn't quite healed right. His spine jutted out in the middle of it, shoulder blades sharp on either side.

John skimmed his fingers gently over the faded scars. "You were only five. But he must have hit you far more than your years deserved."

Sherlock nodded, tears falling down his pale alabaster cheekbones. "Approximately fifty-two times." He pulled his shirt back down around his middle. "And there were the other times, too."

"There were more?" John almost growled. "Where is this bastard? I'm going to kill him, if he's not already dead. And if he is, I'll go dig up his body and kill him again."

"Mycroft took care of him years ago. I believe he was, conveniently, sacrificed in a little-known African tribal ritual." Sherlock said. "But there were many more times." He laughed hollowly. "Oh yes…many, many more."

He twisted his hands in John's. "After that evening, I observed something that I may have been better off to leave alone." He coughed. "Mycroft was not eating as much as he should have been and often smelled like vomit. At the age of six I got my hands on a medical dictionary and ascertained that he had both bulimia and anorexia."

"I tried to tell my parents." Sherlock said, voice hoarse. "But they wouldn't listen. They thought that I was trying to get attention."

"A few weeks later, Uncle Dreyfuss lost his job…and his girlfriend. He moved in with us until he could 'get back on his feet', as my mother put it. I never understood why. Uncle Dreyfuss had even more money than our family did."

John tilted his head. "Then why…"

Sherlock took a careful, shuddering breath. "A few months later, the day after my seventh birthday, I found out that my mother and Dreyfuss were having an…affair."

"Oh, God," John said, horrified. "That's awful."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. And I, being the not-very-socially-aware child that I was, decided that it would be a good idea to blurt it out at the dinner table one night, when everyone in our family was there."

John sighed sadly. "Same old Sherlock."

"Needless to say, no one was very happy. I was inflicted with the same punishment again, from Uncle Dreyfuss, for my 'insolence'."

"Father divorced Mother after that. She never married Dreyfuss, though he lived with us for the next seven years of my life." He clenched his hands into fists inside John's. "It was hell."

"God, Sherlock…That's horrible. I'm…I'm so sorry." John said. He picked up Sherlock's hands and kissed the knuckles gently. "No one should have to go through that. Especially not you."

Sherlock said nothing.

Silence filled the room.

"You said…seven years? What happened when you were fourteen?" John asked.

"I left." Sherlock said bluntly. "Ran off to London and discovered drugs. I lived in gutters and back alleys. I sold everything I had, spent all my money on the drugs, to shut down the mind that had gotten me in so much trouble in the first place."

"You mean…you did drugs because…"

Sherlock nodded, ashamed. "I thought that if I used enough, I wouldn't be such a freak. My mind wouldn't get me in any more trouble if it was drugged."

John clutched Sherlock's hands tightly. "Oh, Sherlock…" he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock nodded. "I know. I am too."

John pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace. The detective's shoulders began to shake with silent sobs, and John felt tears falling down his back. He held him even tighter.

"The past doesn't have to dictate the future, Sherlock. You told me, and I love you more than ever."

"B-but…how could you love me?" Sherlock asked, voice thick. "I'm…damaged. Scarred. Unlovable."

"Damaged? Yes. Scarred? Yes." John tipped Sherlock's chin up and looked straight into his beautiful cerulean-jade eyes. "Unlovable?"

He leaned forward and touched his lips to Sherlock's ever so slightly, eyelashes fluttering against the pale porcelain cheek.

"Never."


	11. Because I'm Not (The Fire Escape)

_A/N; And another unexpected ending! I'm slowly becoming addicted to these ;)_

_Also, I need to apologize to everyone. I haven't updated in weeks; life suddenly decided to get busy :/ I am still working hard on Healing And Crying and Teaspoons Of Sherlock; never fear, they will be updated quite soon!_

_Thank you, once again, to everyone who favorited, followed, read, and especially reviewed this story! It means so much to me...you guys keep me going :)_

_As always, reviews are to me what serial suicides are to Sherlock; Christmas :D_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

Mycroft stared.

This couldn't be happening. It had to be a dream.

Gregory Lestrade, the detective inspector that Mycroft had liked for the longest time, was in love with him.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft looked up to see Greg staring at him, eyes unsure. He coughed. "Okay. Well…Um…"

_The one time I really need my speech skills, and they desert me completely._

They were still slow dancing together. Mycroft could feel the weight of Greg's hands on his waist. He tried to think of something to say.

All of his words suddenly seemed insignificant as Greg's lips met his own.

It was heaven.

Mycroft was no stranger to human affection. Like Sherlock, he had often employed his human manipulation skills, and that sometimes involved physical contact. But this…this was very different. There was a spark between them; it was _real_.

After several minutes of pure bliss, Mycroft broke away, out of breath, eyes wide. "That was…" he trailed off, at a loss for words for the second time that evening.

Greg grinned. "Brilliant?"

"Humble as ever, Gregory," Mycroft said dryly. He leaned in close and laid his head on Greg's shoulder. Greg wrapped his arms around him.

They rocked back and forth to the music for several minutes. It was the best thing Mycroft had ever done.

He could feel Greg's lips on his neck. "God, you're beautiful," the inspector muttered.

Mycroft tensed up but said nothing. He'd figured out by now that Greg wasn't going to like hearing his self-opinion.

Greg suddenly pulled away to look at the man's face, noting the sudden tension in Mycroft's shoulders. He frowned at the look on Mycroft's face. "I mean it, Mickey. You're absolutely gorgeous."

_Mickey? _Mycroft thought for a moment_. I think I might actually like that. Nevertheless…_

Mycroft shook his head incredulously. "If you say so, Gregory."

Greg stared at him intensely. "I do say so. So why don't you believe it?"

Mycroft looked down, trying desperately to avoid eye contact. "I've been informed to the contrary," he whispered quietly.

Greg held him close again and practically growled. "I'd like to find whoever told you that and tell them a thing or two."

Mycroft smiled hollowly into the inspector's shoulder.

_You have no idea, Gregory._

"I don't understand it," Greg whispered in his ear. "You can't figure out how beautiful you are. Why don't you believe me?"

Mycroft sighed and spoke his next words quietly. "Because I'm not."

There were several moments of silence after Mycroft's words. The atmosphere seemed to become dense.

Then, Greg was whispering quietly in Mycroft's ear, eyelashes tickling his cheek.

"I know there's something bad that must have happened to you in the past to make you think you're not beautiful, and I know that you're probably not ready to tell me about it yet. All I can do for now is try my hardest to convince you how amazing you are and make you feel special. Just remember; later, when you're ready, I'm here to listen, okay?"

Greg gently kissed Mycroft's cheek. "I love you, Mickey. That's never going to change."

* * *

"John?"

John kissed Sherlock's curls gently from his position on the bathroom floor. "Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's voice was small, almost as if he felt guilty. "I don't really want to go back to the party."

John took Sherlock's hand in his. "Sherlock, you have every right not to want to go back to the party," he said firmly. He hesitated slightly, thinking. "Do you want to go home?" What if it was too much for Sherlock to go through the flat to the front door? Maybe the window, John thought.

Sherlock nodded carefully. "If…if that's okay with you," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I know that you like these…social gatherings."

"Of course it is, 'Lock. You have nothing to be sorry for." John pulled himself up with the help of the toilet lid and offered his hand to the detective. Sherlock took it, wrapping his long, tapering fingers carefully around John's in a tender gesture of love, and stood up in one fluid motion.

They stayed there, standing together, just for a moment; hands together, each observing the other. Their eyes were locked, as though having some sort of mental conversation.

Then, Sherlock gestured to the window. "Here," he said quietly, eyes glittering. "After all, why would we want to walk past Anderson and Donovan groping each other on the couch when we can get out another way?"

John nodded, too shocked to speak.

Scary, when Sherlock Holmes could read your mind.

He climbed out onto the fire escape ladder, Sherlock right behind. The night was cold and clear now, all traces of storms gone from the sky. The stars were shining brightly above, small pinpoints of light drawing John's eyes upward. The moon was full, gleaming on the rain-sprinkled metal of the small fire escape balcony.

John felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. He turned around to find Sherlock staring at him with an intensity that seemed to burn straight through to his soul.

"You didn't leave." Sherlock looked at him strangely, almost questioningly. "You learned about my scars and my past, and yet…here you are."

"Of course!" John said. "Sherlock, I love you more than anything. Do you really think a few scars and a bastard of an uncle would scare me away?"

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes shined. He leaned in close, lips meeting John's in a passionate kiss.

Finally, after several minutes, he broke away, gasping for breath. "I love you, John. Thank you," he whispered in John's ear, kissing his neck gently. "Just…thank you."

"I love you too, git," John whispered back. He held Sherlock tightly and watched the stars as they winked down at them from the black velvet sky above. They stayed like that for some time, wrapped around each other, in their small cocoon of love.

Finally, after several minutes, Sherlock spoke.

"John?"

"Yes, love?"

"…We should probably get off Lestrade's fire escape now."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, probably."

"…And I'm a bit cold, too."

"You're cold? Where's your bat-cape?"

"John! It's not a _bat-cape_!"

"Oh, well ex_cuse_ me."

"You're excused."

Silence.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"…I love you."

A pause.

"I love you too, Batman."

"JOHN!"

_The End_


End file.
